


smile like you mean it

by Ezfa



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman: The Dark Knight Returns (2012-2013)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Horror, Kidnapping, Mind Manipulation, Mindfuck, Skeletons In The Closet, Violence, dark shit, psycho-noir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 21:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16272650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezfa/pseuds/Ezfa
Summary: "... or I'll carve one right into your pretty little mouth."





	smile like you mean it

**A/N:** _Never did I think in a million years I would write a Joker/Harley fic. Not because I don't like the pairing (it's one of my OTP's) but because there's already so much_ _content_ _out there for them, my contribution would feel highly inadequate and unoriginal. Yet,_ _I became so inspired_ _when I read_ **_(Distorted_** _by_ ** _HoistTheColors_ _)_ ** _and_ **_(Demolition Lovers_ **_by_ ** _Audrey Kasm_ _)._ ** _Seriously, read those amazing pieces of work; so good, and it's been a while since I felt an urge to look forward to any updates on anything. I do make slight references to each of these_ _beautiful fics_ _scattered throughout my own story_ _as a nod, because I'm a huge nerd like that_ _(as Joker would say: "You're not of them; even if you'd like to be._ _"_ _)._ _H_ _onestly this was a lot more self indulgent than I initially planned, which makes writing all this super easy._

_As always, reviews and feedback are always appreciated!_

__

**smile like you mean it  
** _**I. PURGE** _

**SHREDS OF COLORS** burst through my closed lids in lazy spurts. Everything around me is spinning even with my eyes completely shut. It's this feeling that has me too discouraged to even try and move. I want to stay still for as long as I can; but of course you don't let me. You loom over me like Death himself, ready to strike me down the moment you deem worthy enough to do so. I feel you looking down on me even before I start slowly becoming conscious. It's this realization that has my skin tingling, goosebumps raising, slowly reawakening newfound pain in my throat, my wrists and on the side of my head. My mouth is dry and heavy, my lungs feel constricted in my chest, and my the lolling of my head is beyond my control. I may be out of it, but my fractured rationale can tell that I haven't knocked out because of drugs, but from someone  _beating_ me. Everything hurts and otherwise feels too heavy or too numb. It feels like an eternity before I can peel my lids apart, eyelashes cracking; the movement comes like a spasm, rather than my own conscious demand. My body wants to move despite my mind wanting to stay at rest. My vision, my awakening feels like I'm underwater; my heart is beating wildly, but it's not something I directly  _feel._ Colors move in streaks as I try to move my head, to gain sense of what's around me. There's a singular light flashing down.

But you stand out.

Not only because you're literally in front of me, or for the more obvious reason, your painted face with stark white base and black holes for eyes along with those crimson slashes to emphasize a smile, all blurred together into a bright mess. It's not even the way your silhouette is as still as statue, a shadowy figure standing against the slightly illuminated space. It's the  _way_  you're looking at me; it's your  _eyes_ that have me in a trance, but not for the reason you might be thinking. Black and brown eyes are nothing special; 90% of the earth's population have such eyes and you see it everyday. But your eyes? They are… just something else entirely. It's an awkward silence; I'm pretty sure you're waiting for me to say something or to scream, but the dark holes that are your eyes that almost seem to be vibrating with life don't really let me. Why are your irises vibrating like that? Lens dislocation? Cataract extraction? I d _on't_  know how I know those terms or why I want to ask you your story. I want to know what you're hiding behind those eyes. But that lasts only a second; I'm not anything else besides human, and I want to scream. I try to, I really do; but it takes so much effort to even open my mouth, let alone stimulate any saliva. I look like a starving dog, lips and jaw shaking from the overwhelming pain and thirst. I can't even scream, and it's this fact that sparks life, albeit slowly, starting to crawl up my mind, starting to slowly light up the light bulb and make the mind-gerbil  _run._ My head slumps forward from the sheer effort I exert alone.

But it's your laugh that  _really_ wakes me up.

It's the kind of laugh that really comes from the abdomen; from my distorted and blurry vision, even I can tell your slightly hunching over from the action. It bounces off the walls and bleeds through my fingertips, to my spine, to my chest and into my head. It makes me shiver, and it makes me, finally,  _move._ I run my tongue over my lips, trying to stimulate my salivary glands, and I twitch, which turns into a spasm, then to sheer movement, fighting against not only my own exhaustion, but from these…  _binds_ I have just discovered _._ I am tied down, strapped to an uncomfortable chair. You're still laughing, and the more you do, the more I come to life. I come to, my heart rate finally catching up to me, the blurry brows and blacks settling into my vision until they become recognizable shapes and objects. You become clear too. My eyes are fully open, and I also realize that I'm  _panting._ I jerk now, adrenaline finally catching up to my body, the binds become more apparent as I try to see my limitations. From sheer desperation, I try to move everything I can; my feet are also mostly immobilized. I look at myself for the first time and see that bound me up with regular cloth, but the tying methods are clearly strong. They are meant to cut off my circulation, evident from the stiffness and purple color on the skin of my hands and feet. My chest heaves from panic alone, and  _you're still laughing_ and it gets even louder. Why are you  _laughing?_ Why is this funny? Perhaps I say this bit out loud because you  _stop_ laughing. For a second, I think this is a dream and I am just hallucinating on the afterthought of a horror movie I watched. But you seem to hear that too, and you don't like that I even consider that option. To show your blatant distaste, or to prove some kind of point, you 'pat' my face harshly; you do it so painfully and it stings. I try to jerk away, but you just yank a piece of my hair and bring my face forward, forcing me to take a good look at you up close. This time, you don't let my head slump in any direction, you just hold me in place with a hand now gripping to roots of my hair and you study me, your obscene breath wafting on my face. You smell of gunpowder and gasoline; it's overwhelmingly potent.

It takes me a moment to realize that you're speaking to me. I blink a couple of times; you've asked me something, and I can only stare back, confused. You roll your eyes skyward, very exaggeratedly, tongue darting out twice to wet your lips shamelessly; I'd soon pick up that you're not one to sit  _still._ You're always moving, always twitching, always pacing. Even your eyes aren't still for more than an entirety of a second. You're hyper-aware of your surroundings and in turn, you make everyone standing around you the same way. I now have enough wetness to gulp; I'm parched and it's excruciating to do so. After nearly five seconds, sounds start coming back to me; you speaking, you moving, me whining, creaky floorboards and the bustle from outside; it's everything. You constantly move your mouth, wetting your lips, sucking in the puckered flesh around your mouth,  _chewing_ _the inside_ even. You still haven't let my hair go, and you're looking at me like you want to hit me; at the mere thought, I jerk backwards and you just…  _stare_ at me like it's amusing.

"Got a name?" The crystal quality of the sound of your voice startles me; it means I can  _hear_ properly now. You're looking at me with raised eyebrows, as if I'm being  _awkward._ I would be befuddled, offended even at this game you're playing. But that's not what makes me freeze; not even the vice grip you have on my hair and how  _close_ you are has my adrenaline to such insane levels.

It's the fact that I don't  _know_ my name.

You seem to catch on to this; perhaps it's the look in my eyes or the gasp that I elicit, but I see a spark pass by those eyes of yours. You catch it before I do;  _I don't remember anything._ The more seconds pass, the more your smile grows and the deeper I sink into despair. I try desperately to remember  _anything_ at all; who am I? Why am I here? Where am I?  _How_ did I get here?  _Who am I?!_ I want to clutch my head and I want to cry out; I'm becoming even more panicked. The look on my face is absolutely, without a doubt, one the funnier things you've seen in a while; you're even laughing without breathing, you're doubled over in absolute laughter and you're  _pointing_ at me like a loser in class. You even let me go; you're that  _genuinely_ in bliss at my suffering. I'm speechless, distraught, in desperation, in sadness, in anger. Only your obnoxious laughter fills the room; there's a coldness laced underneath it, something chilling and stark. But something in me  _snaps_ , and before I am even aware of my own words, it's already too late. "Shut up!  _Shut up!_ " This lash out proves to be a near fatal mistake; you don't like my outburst. Not one bit. Your laughing doesn't gradually stop, it just abruptly cuts. Like a screeching phonograph; I have little time to ponder my mistake, because now you're  _very_ close to me and you have a very stretching,  _exaggerated_  scowl tugging at the ends of your lips. The very effort even seems painful, I don't know; I don't exactly have time to evaluate my sudden fascination with your strange mannerisms because my heart, convulsing and twitching, falls into my stomach and my lips press together. It takes me a moment to realize that you have the blade of a switchblade pressing into the base of my jugular, testing me,  _daring_ me to say anything more.

"You know, uh… it's not very  _nice_ when you tell someone to mm,  _stop_ ** _laughing_** at the punchline of the joke," You speak to me almost casually, a stark contrast to your scowl and the very grip on your blade. This confirms what I thought about you; this is all a massive joke to you. My jaw trembles and you click the roof of your mouth with your tongue, like your patience is running thin on a naughty child. Perhaps this is how you view me, or maybe that's the impression you want to give. I'm a lot more alert now, and I'm more than ready to bolt out the nearest exit; or hurl myself out of a window. Yet, none of these thoughts come to fruition; you still haven't let me go. You look at me like you want something from me; I don't know what to make of this, your irises have stopped shaking even, and they are like stone, frozen. This fact makes me gulp; I'm scared to so much as breathe, and this placates you only marginally. The blade is like ice, and I become more aware of its' presence on my neck. You move it upward, toward my cheek, examining me; perhaps you are fascinated with me as I am with you. The crease in your brow is made more evident with the face paint, exaggerating your frown lines; every little expression is too visible and you aren't… satisfied about something. "Considering you  _are_ the joke and all, uh, I would say it's actually rather  _rude._ I didn't peg you as the rude type you know. Here I thought you were a  _nice_ girl. I don't appreciate the uh… the ah,  _mimicking,_ as flattering as it is… After all, there's really room for only  _one_ clown act—"

"You don't  _know_ me." It's like my mouth has a mind of his own. I am starting to rethink whether you've drugged me or not. "I ain't  _nice,_ freak!" I try to wrench away from your grasp, but you hold on tighter. Your gaze hasn't wavered from me yet, and I almost prefer you try and  _do_ something to me rather than just stare. I don't know who I am or I who I used to be, say, five years ago, but I get the feeling that I hate being stared at. The fact becomes more apparent to me as time passes. The tip of your blade presses near-mercilessly against my cheek, you don't draw blood just yet though; you want me to know you're in control, to know my place. I am about to unleash a panicked and raging scream, out of sheer desperation and just to spite you. But you speak before my mouth opens.

"A ta ta, I never really liked, uh, the word ffff—fff _rea_ ** _k_ _kk_** … too much." You lick your lips again, drawing my attention to the scars if only for a brief a moment; but that's all you need for your beady eyes to recapture mine, to let me know for sure you caught me staring. Your blunt fingernails prod at my scalp, digging the pieces of flesh where you pulled my roots from. "I'm not _ttttt_ ** _tttt_** crazy; I'm just..." you wave your hand, letting my head go, "…  _exuberant_ _._ That's all." I don't care what you choose to identify as or even the reasoning behind it. "I actually prefer to be called uh,  _Joker."_ You tilt your head at me, like you're  _considering_ me, and bite the inside of your cheek, the thick tissue of your scar is sucked in from the action. "Or heck, you seem like a  _nice_ kid; you can even call me  _Daddy_ if you're  _nice_. Would you like that?" You laugh obscenely at your own little quip, revealing your yellowed teeth in a jester's grin. Suddenly, a possibility springs up in my head, one I haven't considered despite my position: you can very well rape me. The odds are against me and I'd be helpless; I don't like it and I decide to do something about it despite everything. I rear my head back and collide it against you; you even let the knife drop and it clatters to the floor. Not a smart move by any means, I'm well aware. I had aimed right for your gleaming crimson mouth. There's a spark of surprise at my defiance, but soon you just laugh even louder. "Oooh, don't like that, do you? Did I hit a sore spot?" To be honest, I don't if it should have; did I have an abusive past? Your laugh just gets louder, harsher and suffocating. It hurts to gulp and I'm breathing smoke out of my nose, my chest heaving. You take delight in my anger; almost like a boy in elementary would like to bully his crush by pulling her pigtails or pushing her off the swing. You tap my head with a forceful finger. "You… you are a  _riot_ ; like a little  _harlequin!"_ You stop laughter, catching your own words, contemplating. Nonchalantly, you pick up your fallen blade, twirling it, making the light hit it just right for it to shine in my direction; you tap the edge of it to your lips, uncaring when paint bleeds onto it. "Like… a… uh,  _harlequin,"_ you repeat this as if you forget I'm in here; your eyes are shifting and you keep twitching your mouth like you don't know whether to laugh or speak. "You mm, uh, really are testing my patience here. I don't have  _time,_ no time, mmm no  _tim_ ** _ee,_  **to fool around. None; I can't, I simply ca _n't."_ My gaze shifts over to the surrounding area and in trying to find the door, I end up examining everything else instead; I can only see so much. Aside from the single lightbulb hanging above our heads, I am barely making out the wooden pillars around us. There's crates too, the floors are stained heavily with dark splotches. It takes me a second to realize we are in an attic; it doesn't explain the smell though, like an animal crawled in here and died. I wouldn't put it past you to probably torture animals in this enclosed space. Fear really grips my chest now. I only look back to you when I hear you tapping your thigh; you knew I've been staring and you let me, only now you're getting impatient. "See, I don't exactly, uh, take  _kindly_ to those who…  _take_ things from me. And you… you you  _you_ little harlequin, have… done… just…  _that_."

"...Where am I?" My voice is nothing more than a whisper, trying to ignore your threatening accusation. You cock your head to the side like a mechanical being; no life and too exaggerated to be just a habit. You ignore my inquiry.

"It's…  _rude_ to wander away when one's  _talking,"_ you talk like my avoidance on the topic confuses you. There's something you can't figure out about me.

"Where am I?" I say a little louder.

You ignore me. "See because I—" you make as if you're checking your watch despite not wearing one, "am kind of on a, uh, little time frame here. Not to pressure or anything  _butt_ ** _tt_** uh—"

" _Where am I?!"_ I finally cry out, jerking violently against my binds.

You blink, eyebrows raised and cock your head to the other side this time. "Uh, jeez—  _Temper;_ you could have, uh, just  _asked_ nicely. No need to shout. Think of the children." I feel a coldness wash over me. Are there children in here? Are you… holding  _others_ hostage? In another room, perhaps? But you catch the look on my face and you wave your hands around as if to calm me down. "Now now, let's nottt _tt_ ** _ttt_** get  _crazy_ ideas or anything; I was just  _saying._ Don't worry; it's just  _you_." You bite the inside of your cheek on that one, "...Subjectively, of course." I clamp my jaw down to keep my chin from trembling and though it's a miracle that I haven't really shed any tears, I can feel my tear ducts scorching with desire to. You roll your eyes, annoyed. "Jeez, here I thought I would have a, uh… more  _happy_ welcome. I showed up; isn't that enough? You make a  _very_ lousy host, you know." I'm speechless. As if on cue, I choke on an oncoming sob; your eyes flicker to mine, and you fall silent. I come to realize I don't like it when you do; I can see the gears working in your head, and there's no way to tell what the result is going to be. "But really, little harlequin, I need—"

" _Don't_ call me that!" At that you just look at me like you feel  _sorry_ for me; like I'm some kind of  _child._ "Don't call me that! Let me  _go_! What the hell do you want?!  _Who are you?! What the_ ** _fuck_** _is going on?!"_ All my questions bounce off of you like rubber; none of them get to you and you actually seem  _bored_ of me already.

"I  _need_ _—t_ ** _u_ _h_ _,_** I need some A-game here. Work with me, yeah?" My lips curl and I shut my eyes, but you don't like that. You roughly grab my chin, squeezing the skin; it hurts even with those purple gloves. The harder I struggle, the more I try to wrench away, the more your hold tightens. "Hey now— _hey hey hey,_ look at me, this is what you wanted, isn't it? The least you can do is not be  _rude_ and  _look at_ ** _me,_** " you lick your lips again, and this time, you press the blade to my lips; a gesture that, were it with a finger, would probably be romantic in nature. "Mm, you're  _very…_ spritely, you know that? A little too serious,  _lighten up_ a little! Don't be so stony faced baby doll," tired from my struggling, I finally give in, but I don't give you the benefit of peering my eyes at you, and they remain glued to the purple of your gloves instead. You find that funny. "Aww, why so shy around  _D_ _addy,_ eh? Is it the scars?" You don't give me the possibility of headbutting you again, making sure to wrap your hand previously holding my chin around my throat. "Want to know how I got them, little harlequin? Or do you already know?" Tears prickle in my eyes; I'm exhausted and burnt, but there's anger too. I hate you. I want you to  _burn._ I don't care about your stupid scars. With a painful squeeze that has formidable strength behind it, you make me shriek and I give in; I look up to you, my eyes leveling with yours. "Better yet, want to, uh… want to…  _would you_ like to…." a question sits on the roof of your tongue, and you repeatedly squeeze in small intervals as you're thinking, my breathing is becoming very limited, "Want to just, uhh, get it over with? See, Daddy can't exactly  _play_ for much longer, sweetheart. I just need you to, you know,  _talk."_  You sniff, looking at me expectantly, "So  _please,_ talk," there's an underlying threat there, and at my lack of response, you roll your eyes and find another way to condescendingly explain it to me, "Spill the beans. Let the cat out of the bag. Make the pig  _squeal,"_ you make a popping sound with your mouth, and you look at me expectantly. "I came all this way. The least you can do is make it worth the hassle."

I don't know what the fuck you're going on about. "I don't… I don't…." is all I can manage to say, any more movement with my mouth is painful. You still don't let me go. I'm confused, too tired to conjure something up and too terrified to test anything else.

You remain eerily silent, and you take a good long look at me. One would think you're not even real by the way you just turn to utter stone; no motion of the lips, no movement of the eye. Heck, I don't think I even see you breathing. Mercifully, you let go my throat and it takes everything in me not to let myself sob. "You really…  _don't_ know." You don't ask this like a question, but you don't quite state it like a fact either; it's an observation. I realize you're  _analyzing_ me, but this time, you find it less funny than the initial time you realized it. Perhaps you thought I was kidding before. You're tapping your thigh, and the speed of it increases every second that stretches. I am taut and tense, waiting for the worst to happen as the sound becomes louder, more fervent. You're thinking and you're thinking  _hard._ But then you simply turn and begin walking away; I don't quite catch on to your mumbling, all I can manage to hear is  _bad joke_ like you're disappointed. Panic pools in my gut.

"Wh-where are you  _going?"_ I shrill out brokenly. You turn to look at me like you just realized I'm there; your attention had been elsewhere and you seem unsure what to do with me. "What are you— are you just going to  _leave_ —?!" I don't even know what to say or how to say it. You just shrug, like you can't be bothered, waving me away, annoyed, as if I'm a persistent insect. I don't want you leaving; killing me now would be a mercy, I realize that now. Maybe you'll come up with something much worse and you leaving implies plenty thinking on your end. My thoughts are chaotic, everywhere and messy, and only one manifests in my desperation: "Who  _are_ you?"

You grin wickedly right then; flattered, even. The yellow in your teeth considerably brought out by the red on your mouth. "You already know that; I'm the  _Joker."_ And with that, you make your way up the stairs and slam the door behind you as your unhinged laugh echoes not too far behind, leaving me alone in a stuffy, dark attic that reeks of death. I don't know when you'll be back,  _if_ you'll be back or what plans you have for me. Are you just going to leave me in isolation, to starve and rot? Or are you going to dismember me and cut me open alive?

I scream for help until I pass out from exhaustion.

**( &. )**

I realize I'm sobbing, even in slumber; I wake up whining wretchedly through my lips. I don't know how long I've been here; whether it's a few minutes, a few hours or even days. You don't come, and I am starting to believe maybe I just hallucinated you from the stranger, darker corners of my crumbling mind. Am I going mad? Or perhaps this is your plan; to make me  _think_ of you as a hallucination, to get me to break down. Or perhaps I don't even matter to you; maybe you  _have_ truly forgotten about me, leaving me to die alone and an amnesiac. The thought seems less appealing, crazily enough. I want you to come back, to reassure me you are real, that I'm not going  _crazy._ I huff and puff, traitorous tears leaking down my cheeks; I don't know if I believe in God or not, but I pray anyway. I can barely see anything through the darkness; I can make out some slight shapes, but nothing solid. I let myself weep, if only for a few moments or more. I don't have the notion of time on my side. The back of my neck rests on the top of the chair I'm tied to; it's uncomfortable and stiff. My wrists and ankles are tight, and in turn my feet and hands are absolutely numb; I'm sure they're purple. To top it all off, I also realize that my bladder is about to burst.

" _ **FUCK**_ _ **!**_ _"_  I howl; to you, the wall, to myself, to everyone and everything that made this situation happen in the first place. I've jerked forward, nearly toppling the chair and in turn, me, over. "Shit, shit,  _shit!_ " I hiss, and do everything in my power to shift my weight backwards, hoping that it doesn't have the worse effect, and topple me backwards. After walking on a thin thread, the chair slams harshly onto the floor and I sigh in relief. I'm pissed off now. I scowl, but I refrain from trying to violently jerk despite the adrenaline pumping through my body from sheer desperation. " _Fuck,"_ I hiss under my breath to no one in particular.  _Come on girl, use your fucking wits._ A stupid thought, but a necessary one. I begin to labor my breathing, trying to focus on the more important thing: I wiggle my fingers. Thankfully, my hands are not tied together, but being strapped to the arms of the chair make my task a little more difficult. Slowly, I wiggle my wrists too; at least you didn't use rope, but the cloth is very tight. I keep at this for a while, trying to focus on loosening the cloth. I'm not thinking too clearly, so it takes a bit to try and bend down to bite the fabric. I feel like an idiot, and despite my pain, I do so. One wrist becomes undone, and I sigh in sweet relief. It doesn't take too long for other one to become undone, and I stop myself from crying out again. My wrists  _ache_ and I'm sure there's immediate physical damage; but I'm just too relieved to take that into consideration. Soon after, my ankles are also free. An inhuman, desperate grunt escapes me, and my first instinct is to run upstairs; fortunately, my own legs give out under me, preventing me from possibly showing you that I'm free and giving you the chance to carve me like soap. I'm on all fours, shaking. The chair has clattered backward, and I remain in silence. Only my labored breathing can be heard. I think about what you said to me:  _I'm the Joker._ I hate you in this moment; I hate you with all my possible might. I want you dead. "Ease it, girl," I need to get out of here first, not have murder fantasies with the schizophrenic, murderous clown aka  _you_. With shaking knees, I force myself up, blindly reaching out for the rope for the light. I grasp it, yet just before I turn it on I freeze at a thought; what if you're standing right in front of me, and as soon as I shed light, you'll kill me? I gulp; what if you're not down  _here_ , but you're up  _there_ , waiting for me? What if I turn on the light and you don't make yourself apparent, instead sitting in some obvious corner that I'll be sure to miss? I'd ask myself why I'm so paranoid, but that's obvious. Suddenly you're in every crevice of the room, and I don't know how to escape you. I close my eyes, and I try to hear any indication that you're here with me.  _Ah fuck it,_ and I turn on the light, heart beating wildly out of my chest. To my humiliation, this is the moment that my pee decides to pool out. With quivering legs, I stumble down on to the ground, trying not to feel the disgusting, lukewarm liquid  _touching_ me. Fuck, I'm a mess. "I need to get out of here," I whisper, shivering, hand on my mouth.

A memory flashes before me; a fragment, a shard. A voice.  _"Hey guys look! Frances_ _ **peed**_ _herself!"_ Gasps of horror and disgust echo around me; children. Blurry blobs and colorful heads. In this moment, I am not a grown woman, but a child.  _"_ _Gonna cry and call mommy and daddy?"_ Am I on a playground? In school? A park? Just as the memory comes, it's gone in a flash. Ew. Is my name really  _Frances_? Somehow, that fact has me more upset. And yet, it doesn't feel quite right.

I shake my head, truthfully uncaring of my current life details. I could cry about my sad sob story later. I raise myself up, trying to muster up whatever dignity I have left in a slightly frantic search for some rags. The ones you've used to tie me up with barely do the trick, but it's the best that I can find. My skin around my thighs are bare, my shorts are soaked and I'm covered in goosebumps. With shaking hands, I wipe them on my shirt, trying not to think too hard on the pee. I hope I don't vomit or worse. I take a good look around me; the expectancy to find you sitting just under my calming composure. The room is bare, now laced with the stench of urination and that…  _odor_ of rotting meat. I can't find the source, it's everywhere. Is this where you slowly and arduously murder your victims? I know I should be running towards the exit; what I should  _have_ done right after untying myself. But something pulls me in here, and I have the most vague feeling that I've forgotten something and most of all, I am  _afraid_ of running into you. Somehow this abandoned, nasty attic is a little bit more welcoming than the thought of encountering you again. So instead, I remain on the stars, hunched and trembling, wanting desperately to leave but too frightened to really move. You did this to me. You made me fear for my life without even trying too hard, even now, your scent of gunpowder and greasepaint ooze in my nostrils making me dizzy, nervous. I lean my head back against the wall, hand clutching tightly against the staircase rail. I then spot a smudge just across the entirety of the room; something seizes me then, a mix of adrenaline and relief and excitement. My fingers twitching in an oddly familiar way, like I know this. Without a second thought, I yank myself out of my self-inflicted pity party and make a grab for the object I can't take my eyes off of. I almost laugh at the irony of it, you being a clown and all, this very well suits your needs, doesn't it? The second my hands circle around the giant, circular mallet, I feel secure and protected. There's blood at the base of it and it looks worn. I wonder where you went to get this giant, ridiculous thing made. I also wonder how many heads you've smashed with it. My chest tightens with something dark and now? Now I want to look for your stupid face. All my tenseness and fear seems to be exorcised away from me with each step I take, my resolve tightening into something I recognize and yet also terrifies me. Every bit of interaction I had with you, which took no longer than five minutes at most, has me seething. I want to see what your reaction when I bring this thing to your face. I don't want to see what's behind those eyes anymore, I want to see them spill right out of your skill. I think of the worst possibilities; did you kidnap me, take me away from an ordinary, happy life? What have you done with those close to me? Surely I had people I cared about; people who are wondering where I am. Did you maybe involve me in something morally corrupt, something with money or drugs and now you want to keep my mouth shut? Did I see something I wasn't supposed to? My hand is on the doorknob, and there's so much blood pumping through my head that I may pass out. I finally get the balls to open the door; I step out, mallet firmly in my grasp. I take tentative steps forward.

I barely have time to look around me and examine the home before the sound of loud banging on the door roots me to the spot. It sounds so far away, but it's only up ahead in a neat, narrow corridor. " _Open the fucking door clown!"_  Sickening relief washes over me, and I nearly stumble as I run towards the source of the sound. Someone knows you're here and they know  _I'm_ here; I'm being rescued! I let out a sobbing laugh despite the growing banging, and the really  _pissed_ man on the other side.

"I'm here… I'm here  _I'm here!"_ At that, the man stops his ruckus; but I pay mind to it, desperately unlocking the door with shaking, weak hands. Tears run down my face, making my eyelashes sticky, and it takes all my strength to heave the door open. "God I'm here! You have no idea how long I—"

All my bliss is lost when the man shoves me, violently pinning me against the wall by seizing my throat. I can't breathe. "There you are, you fucking bitch," he hisses. And, for some reason, I remember your words:

_T_ _here's really room for only one clown act._


End file.
